


the nameless shadows.

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/strange fake
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29279955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: Andersen dusted off his pants, straightened up with his hands on his back, and let out a long sigh. He stretched out his hand and summoned his Noble Phantasm. “Well,” he said, “this isn’t the worst place I’ve had to work in. Now, which one should I choose…”With his attention lost in his book, he did not see the shadows in the corners trembling. He did not see how they slid from the ceiling to the floor in a sickly, black puddle, how they oozed towards him like a massive eel. The shadows stretched into a man’s silhouette, rising higher and higher until their great head almost scraped the ceiling...---andersen gets more than he bargained for during a ghost hunt.
Kudos: 11





	the nameless shadows.

**Author's Note:**

> for tori - thank u so much for commissioning me!! IT WAS REALLY FUN TO WRITE JACK!

A curious ghost haunted Chaldea’s hallways. This wasn’t too unusual, because when you summoned the dead as warriors for mankind’s future, you were bound to have a few hauntings here and there. The unusual thing about this ghost was that no one could agree _what_ exactly it was. This problem became more and more apparent with each Servant Andersen interviewed.

“Umu, so you are investigating this hooligan as well! I ought to warn you, scribe, this trespasser would terrify even the most bloodthirsty of demons! You best leave this matter to your lovely emperor.”

“A ghost? Can’t say I’ve seen one, woof. The only weird thing I remember is a dog… it stank reeeeal bad, like beef curry left on the counter overnight!”

“Mister Andersen! It’s been a while... huh? A series of disturbances in the east wing? Um, there’s been no reports as far as I know… oh, Mister Andersen, wait!”

Ghost stories weren’t Andersen’s area of expertise, though he read more than his fair share of Gogol and Sir Walter Scott. He wasn’t interested in recording the chaos and mischief left behind by this specter.

No, what he wanted was this ghost’s most elusive treasure: its identity.

The abandoned hallway in the west wing was brought up repeatedly. This was likely the ghost’s haunting ground. The path to it was littered with remnants of busier times: half-torn posters, forlorn stacks of boxes, the distinct and dusty smell of an unopened room. The entrance to the hallway was marked by long strips of caution tape, woven into a bright yellow web. Andersen’s height was an advantage here. He found an opening large enough for him to crawl through with much grumbling.

The atmosphere was perfect for a horror novel. If he were a character, this was the part where he’d be ambushed. But the fluorescent lights were all in functioning order and the spookiest thing in sight were the spiderwebs in the corner. The hallway didn’t stretch too far, either. It came to a dead end at six feet, where there were more boxes left to languish in limbo.

Andersen dusted off his pants, straightened up with his hands on his back, and let out a long sigh. He stretched out his hand and summoned his Noble Phantasm. “Well,” he said, “this isn’t the worst place I’ve had to work in. Now, which one should I choose…”

With his attention lost in his book, he did not see the shadows in the corners trembling. He did not see how they slid from the ceiling to the floor in a sickly, black puddle, how they oozed towards him like a massive eel. The shadows stretched into a man’s silhouette, rising higher and higher until their great head almost scraped the ceiling.

“Hello. Is it me you’re looking for?”

Plenty of Servants crept, sulked, and otherwise slunk around Chaldea. Yet the sudden voice – man and woman and child all at once – made Andersen jump. He slammed his Noble Phantasm shut.

“Depends.” Andersen craned his head up to stare at the ghost. In his mind was the vague _idea_ of a face. He knew this mass of shadows had eyes, nose, and a mouth, but could not detail them. A writer wielded language to name the unnamable. Yet here was something that defied naming. “There’s been talk of a haunting. Are you the culprit?”

“You cannot take a step in Chaldea without running into a ghost,” the spirit responded with great amusement. Andersen had the eerie sense it was smiling. “Are ghosts so easily bothered by other ghosts?”

“When the troublesome ghost in question is prone to harassing others? Yes.”

“I troubled no one. I only watched.”

“I’d say you did more than that.”

The ghost bowed its form to hang its great, featureless head over Andersen. “What do you have in your book?”

“A story. What else?”

“Oh, I see. You are a writer.” It drew the title out, each vowel stretched into a purr. “Your kind has always pursued me.”

Andersen couldn’t tell if it was a threat or a compliment. “Writers adore the intangible. The best of us strive to capture it with our words.”

“My,” the ghost said. “So, you’re going to capture me without my permission? How forward of you.”

“I didn’t gain my reputation by being timid. Better to be rude and blunt than to wait like some blushing wallflower. You are an undefined variable at Chaldea. Someone should solve you – no, someone _will_ solve you sooner or later. It may as well be me. You’ll find no better biographer.”

The ghost threw its head back and laughed. All the hallway’s shadows shook with it, trembling in a frenzy of dark wisps. They coagulated into a cover so thick that the ceiling lights snuffed out.

“I’ll give you credit where credit is due: you’re brave.” The ghost breathed in Andersen’s ear. “Arrogant, too, for thinking you can solve a mystery even I don’t have the answer to.”

Andersen turned around. His Noble Phantasm’s light was a weak beacon in this sea of darkness, and it made him feel little more than a drifting speck. “But isn’t that what you want?” He spoke with more swagger than his legs felt. His voice had always been stronger than his body. “You’re misunderstanding me. What I deduce isn’t ‘facts.’ It’s the ‘truth’ of the heart.”

“Huh? You’re not making much sense.” The ghost sounded like it was on the ceiling. “The truth and the facts – they’re the one and the same.”

“For a nameless existence like yourself? Don’t make me laugh. There’s a world of difference between an encyclopedia and a fairy tale! Whoever or whatever you were in life, that’s only part of the whole. ‘What does the ghost want to be?’ That’s what grants a reader understanding.”

No response. Andersen pushed up his glasses. “You can’t possibly be content haunting the halls like some minimum wage haunted house actor,” he said. “There’s someone you must want to be in this second life of yours.”

Then, low like a carnivore’s purr: “I see. Well, well, you have a way with words, Caster. I’m willing to play. After all, a criminal like me must enjoy the little things in life.”

Footsteps echoed off to his left and when the ghost spoke, it sounded like a cheerful young boy. Out of the corner of his eye, Andersen spotted a flash of blonde hair.

“So, Mister Fairy Tale Writer, let’s make this a game! Who am I? Tell me, tell me! If you can find out, I’ll pour my heart out to you. If you can’t… weeeeeell…”

Sharp, pointed claws latched onto Andersen’s throat. The tips dug into the skin, a promise.

“You’ll find out what I’m famous for.”


End file.
